


kill you in the morning

by screechfox



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Altered Mental States, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist - Freeform, Bathing/Washing, Corruption, Denial of Feelings, Dubiously Consensual Caretaking, Everyone is Dead, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Manipulation, No Smut, Season/Series 05, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:29:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28553910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screechfox/pseuds/screechfox
Summary: Helen is true to her word: she keeps Jon in her corridors until everyone he knows is dead. Well, almost everyone. Elias cleans up in the aftermath.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 29
Kudos: 128





	kill you in the morning

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to michael for beta-reading <33

In all honesty, Jon doesn’t have any idea how long it takes to kill Helen. 

The hotel collapses around him, walls to bricks to dust that clogs his lungs and makes him choke. If the Eye weren’t so burned into him, perhaps those ashes would have settled into his veins and made him the Distortion’s newest face. Or perhaps he’d have just suffocated.

Jon only realises how dizzy he is when he finds himself on hands and knees, rust-red seeping between his fingers like sand. There are flecks of vivid neon in amongst the brick-dust, and a hysterical laugh bubbles up from his throat as he recalls the hotel wallpaper. What an eyesore.

Christ, but he feels weak. It’s like he’s stared into the sun; falsehoods and blindspots float across his awareness, distorting the scarce glimpses of truth he instinctively reaches for. The Eye’s voice — in as much as it has one — is inducing a potent migraine.

Martin carried the ibuprofen, he thinks, and his laughter falls away. He can’t grasp the cold reality of what happened while he was gone. He’s almost grateful for that.

Helen had fought Jon with everything she had; there are gashes in his sleeves where she’d gripped onto him, wild-eyed, pinning her bets on the chances that he’d flinch away.

Red splashes onto red below him. She got more than Jon’s sleeves, then.

“I’d say so, yes,” remarks Elias, a few feet away. Jon can’t even bring himself to be surprised at his presence; it fits cleanly with his perception of the world, so natural it must be monstrous.

“How bad is it?” Jon manages, his voice hoarse and tasting of blood.

He doesn’t need to look up to know Elias is smiling, but he does regardless, making eye contact with him for the first time in what feels like years. As their gazes meet, Elias’ thoughts wash into him, a cool balm against the burn of the Spiral. That isn’t really a surprise, either.

“Nothing you won’t heal in time.” Elias’ smile is the same as ever. Silhouetted against the London skyline, he looks like a young man, at home in his own careless arrogance.

“Time is rather subjective these days.”

“Then we’d better hope that your subjective experience of the healing process is quick, hm?” Elias’ amusement is like liquid metal — could be quicksilver, could be mercury. It slips into the gaps between Jon’s thoughts, cool and insidious and horribly comforting.

“You’re not doing anything.” Except perhaps dying, Jon adds, secure in the knowledge that it’ll be heard. Elias is nearly defenseless, so far from his stronghold; what is he even doing here?

Jon’s arms shake as he tries to push himself up to standing, and his hand slips out from beneath him. Before he even processes that he’s falling, Elias’ hand is resting on his shoulder, unconcerned with the blood and Spiral-dust that covers Jon’s jacket.

His other hand is held in empty air, an unspoken offer of support.

“You’re too weak to kill me right now, Jon,” Elias says, quiet and calm. “Let me help you.”

Searching Elias’ face for insincerity, Jon finds nothing. It’s a hollow comfort — how often has Elias positioned himself as Jon’s only support, the only one that Jon could trust with what he was becoming? Jon had hoped he’d grown out of that vulnerability, but old habits die hard.

It’s Elias’ thoughts that win him over; that have him placing his palm in Elias’. They’re the only thing that feels clear and true in Jon’s awareness, and they’re really very simple:

Elias is planning to drive them back to London, to Elias’ house. There, he’ll draw Jon up a bath and help him recuperate, and when he’s finally  _ ready _ — Jon echoes the thought with as scathing a mental tone as he can manage — Elias will show him the Panopticon.

If there’s any chance Jon can still end the apocalypse on his own, he needs to take it. Elias is the last person he should be trusting right now — worse even than Helen.

All the same, is there any harm in waiting a little while? He’s hardly at his best right now.

“You still have a car?” Jon asks, somewhat dubious.

(There’s no point in voicing any of his inner turmoil. If Elias wants to know — and Jon is certain he does, if only to assess the risk that Jon poses — he’ll look in Jon’s head himself.)

Elias laughs, pulling Jon to his feet without so much as a warning.

“We all have our luxuries in our own domain, Jon. You’ll get the opportunity to find yours sooner or later, I’m sure.” London looms all the larger as they begin to walk. “A museum, perhaps?”

“A museum of human terror. I think I’ll pass.”

“As you wish,” Elias allows, a smile in his voice. “Personally, I think it’s rather fitting.”

Jon is as surprised to wake up as he is to have fallen asleep in the first place.

He’d dreamt, he thinks, in the same way he might have dreamt before the Change. His nightmares haven’t changed as much as he’d expected, always culminating in being held in the endless pupil of the unblinking eye that now sits above the whole world.

The memories of getting into the car are fuzzy; Elias placed him down on the back seat, which means at some point Elias must have started  _ carrying _ him. The engine had started, and Jon had tried to keep watch out of the window, but at some point, he must have been lulled to sleep.

Jon shifts in his seat, reaching for the car door just as Elias opens it from the other side.

“Do you think you can stand?” Elias asks, all-business.

“I… Yes, I think so.” Pushing himself across the seat, Jon does his best to fix Elias with his most incisive glower. His words are laced with compulsion, not that he thinks it’ll do him any good right now. “Why did I fall asleep?”

“Well, I imagine you were rather tired.”

“Elias.”

Elias pauses, choosing his words. His mental presence is further away now, and against all sanity, Jon finds he misses the mercurial clarity of Elias’ thoughts.

“Our domain is designed to suit us, and—” he sighs, irritation flickering across his expression like candle-flame, “—we are designed to suit it. It let you rest, but it took its due in return.”

Right. There’s no such thing as altruism, not anymore.

(Martin was altruistic, an anchor in the storm. But Martin— Jon flinches away from that train of thought like it’s burned him. He can’t handle such gentle human pain, yet. Better to think of the harm the Distortion did him alone, carving spirals into the channels of his pupils.)

With some reluctance, Jon lets Elias help him out of the car, taking a moment to breathe in the familiar London air and get his bearings.

If Jon didn’t know better, he might think this was any normal street — albeit in one of London’s more upper-class boroughs. Everything is white brick and iron fences, a tasteful park across the road providing a splash of wholesome greenery. 

The illusion is spoiled, of course, by how the Panopticon dominates the skyline. Jon notes with some bemusement that the architecture of the tower seems pulled from another city — Newcastle or Aberdeen perhaps, the stones from local mines shaped into something wind-beaten and imposing and rather beautiful. 

Elias’ voice resonates in Jon’s mind with a familiar calm authority:  _ The Institute was founded in 1818 in Edinburgh, and only moved to London in the later years of Jonah Magnus’ life. _ Jon is too out of it to untangle whether it’s a memory, or their thoughts crashing together like waves.

“I’ve never visited,” Jon says out loud. Elias should be able to deduce his meaning regardless.

“Really? It’s quite beautiful. Although my God, the weather never lets up.”

An image of Jonah Magnus, drenched by rain and rather pathetic, presses itself into Jon’s brain, and he can’t help but laugh at the mental image. Spiteful, perhaps— but no one ever said he was above a little spite now and again.

“I don’t suppose it exists anymore,” he murmurs, waiting for a melancholy that never quite arrives.

As Elias hums in agreement, he offers his arm. How gentlemanly he pretends to be.

Elias’ house is set into the base of the Panopticon, incongruously mundane in contrast to that alien spire; inside, it looks more like the Institute than anything else, all dark woods and old bookshelves.  _ It feels like home, _ Jon thinks, then scolds himself. Just because he hasn’t had anything resembling a home in a long time — two weeks in a cabin in Scotland excluded — doesn’t mean he ought to lower his standards.

Jon is escorted firmly into the living room, well-lit and comfortable, though filled with all the little signifiers of wealth that he’d expect. There’s a fireplace, and bookshelves set into alcoves on either side. There’s a luxurious sofa too, but even as he sways on his feet, he isn’t about to give Elias the satisfaction of watching him collapse onto it.

“I’ll run you a bath,” Elias says, a laugh in his voice. “Feel free to peruse my books until I call you up.”

Though he’d rather not let Elias out of his sight, Jon is somewhat placated by the chance to browse his shelves. As a researcher, he’d always been fascinated with how knowledgeable Elias had seemed, and even when he’d learnt what Elias  _ was, _ that fascination never truly faded. Who knows the supernatural better than a man firmly entrenched in it, after all?

Two centuries is a long time to collect books, Jon muses, running his hands across their spines. Unsurprisingly, Elias’ collection is an eclectic selection of non-fiction; modern esoteric literature sits beside tattered encyclopedias that might very well date back to the Regency itself.

Upstairs, there’s the sound of running water. Pipes rumble in the walls, and Jon feels a bittersweet nostalgia blooming in his chest; it reminds him of the early years in his grandmother’s house, how it shifted and creaked as the seasons passed. They’d moved house eventually, but all of his most vivid childhood memories took place in that old and dusty home.

“How many of these are Leitners?” Jon asks, when Elias’ footsteps approach down the stairs.

“Can’t you tell?” Elias’ voice is curious, uncharacteristically so; Jon shoots him an untrusting look, but if he’s masking himself, he’s doing it very well. “I would have thought—”

Jon’s head pounds as he shakes his head in denial. “Just… answer the question. Please.”

“… No, none of them are Leitners. You’re right in assuming that I gathered a fair collection, but those books have found a new home elsewhere.” Jon’s first assumption is that the domains have stolen away what belongs to them, but then Elias’ gaze rises to the ceiling. 

The Institute still has its library, then, in whatever form it takes now.

“The bath should be to your tastes now,” Elias continues, disrupting the melancholy air that had so briefly settled across the room. Jon feels a spark of familiar annoyance.

“I prefer showers,” he retorts with a scowl, just to be contrary.

Elias laughs. He seems delighted by Jon’s resistance, and it only makes Jon hate him more.

“Only because you’re constantly in a hurry, Jon. Trust me, just this once: you’ll like this.”

The emerald tiles that border the walls of Elias’ bathroom are moulded with the patterns of eyes. On the periphery of Jon's vision, they shift and flutter, gazes never settling on any one thing. 

Elias’ hand is firm on Jon’s back, guiding him towards the bath that sits by the window. Steam rises from the water, but not nearly enough to obscure the glass; the curtains are unused, colour dulled by layers of dust. Like everything here, this is just another temple to the Eye.

A less tired Jon would put up a cursory objection, but does his exposure really matter? The Ceaseless Watcher already knows every facet of him, and everything outside of that window is one of its instruments — or one of its victims, caught in their nightmares. 

Witnessing a private moment could be part of those nightmares, of course. For some, it will be the fear of accidentally seeing, and wondering forever if their slip-up will be punished. For others, it’s the tightrope of willful voyeurism: how far can you see into someone’s life before you’re caught? How much relief does your stolen knowledge even provide?

Jon imagines himself through a watcher’s eyes — nothing more than a silhouette in a lit window, the lines of his naked body unmistakable. He imagines himself looking down at the street, the streetlights catching his gaze and making it gleam as he meets the voyeur’s eyes. 

The very idea of it whets his appetite, and that alone should make him back down.

It doesn’t, though; if it isn’t him, then the Eye will simply conjure some other monster to stare down from a window. He won’t be sparing anyone from suffering either way. Martin would argue about how that isn’t the  _ point, _ and Jon would even agree with him: you can’t stop the harm, but you can try to be less complicit in it. 

Martin isn’t here, though. It is almost certain that Martin will never be here again. 

The only thing Jon has left to cling to is the guilt. He’ll be the monster in the window and hate himself all the while, and that shame will be the fuel for… well, whatever he does next. Either that or he’s just making excuses for himself.  _ That _ sounds like Georgie’s voice.

Sorrow will come later. If he’s being honest, he’s too exhausted to not give in.

Jon turns, one hand resting on the edge of the bath to steady himself. 

Elias hasn’t left the room. That, at least, makes Jon pause. His thoughts are placid, the still surface of his mind betraying nothing. Underneath, the water is dark and inviting. If Jon took a single step in, he knows that he wouldn’t be able to stop until he drowned.

“Would that be so bad?” Elias asks, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“What are you still doing here, Elias?” Jon can make an educated guess, of course, about why Elias is standing there, but he wants to hear it from the devil’s mouth. “Tell me,” he demands, compulsion scraping through his throat like barbed wire.

“Our patron demands it,” Elias replies with a quiet sigh. There’s something in his voice that Jon can’t place — resentment, maybe? “It will help you heal more quickly, if that’s any consolation.”

It’s the truth, or near enough. For all that Jon scoffs, he can feel it with the same natural awareness with which he feels his heart beat in his chest; their shared god sits behind their eyes, eager for exposure, for exhibition. To disobey would be like fighting gravity.

Is  _ that _ why Elias’ voice was laced with bitterness? He isn’t the type to yield to a higher power willingly — or at all. The Ceaseless Watcher has them both leashed, doesn’t it?

Scowling all the while, Jon raises shaking hands to the collar of his shirt. “Well,” he snaps, “I suppose we’d better get on with it.”

Elias steps forward, expression turned distant in some way that Jon can’t place — it’s as though he’s turned to marble in front of Jon’s very eyes, a hollow calm taking the place of all that smug self-assurance that Jon is so used to. He looks tired.

The touch of Elias’ fingers to his shirt-collar stirs him from that train of thought, as Elias begins unbuttoning Jon’s shirt. His touch is slow and gentle, as though it actually means anything.

“Just because I have to be here,” Elias murmurs, “doesn’t mean it has to be unpleasant.”

“Right. Because you’re so concerned about my comfort.”

“Do I have any reason not to be, anymore? Our apocalypse is here; my life’s work is complete.”

“You’re selfish and sadistic,” Jon tells Elias, as he works Jon’s shirt over his shoulders, careful not to brush the wounds Helen left. “You toy with people just so you can watch their pain.”

Elias inclines his head in guileless agreement. 

“All of that doesn’t preclude the idea that I might make an exception, does it?”

As Elias steps away to fold the remains of Jon’s shirt, Jon finds himself swaying on his feet, having to lean against the bath for support. It’s harder and harder to keep his eyes open, but he does his best — he can’t afford to let his guard down around Elias more than he already has.

One of Elias’ hands settles on Jon’s upper arm, keeping him steady. His gaze searches Jon’s expression, and then the marble of his face softens into terrible humanity.

“Just a little longer, Jon. You can manage that.”

The unyielding certainty in Elias’ voice is bolstering, despite everything. Just a little longer.

Elias kneels down to remove Jon’s trousers. Here, his movements are clinical, as though he’s trying to spare Jon from any of the more salacious implications of their position. The world is a watercolour blur, but Elias is there, glass-sharp and solid in front of him.

Jon watches from outside himself as Elias exposes him with the care of a sculptor unearthing their art from unhewn stone. He watches his own skin flush, scars shifting as his chest rises and falls. He watches Elias run a gentle hand up his side, coming to rest on his neck. 

The sensation of Elias’ thumb stroking across his throat is very far away.

“Fuck,” Jon mutters; it seems the thing to say.

He manages to get into the bath without any assistance, much to his relief. The water is hot enough to be painful for the first few moments, but as his body adjusts, the pain fades away.

Exhaling, he leans his head back against the rim of the bath.

He watches his own hand brush across the water, sending ripples across the stillness. He’s utterly exposed, weak and vulnerable, but his exhaustion washes away any true sense of fear. All that remains is the quiet certainty that he’s showing his underbelly to a predator.

Outside, Jon can feel someone staring up at the window, terrified and fascinated in turn. It’s a lulling sort of ebb and flow, mingling with the warmth of the water and leaving him even drowsier than before. Every sensation feels vivid and dreamlike all at once, as though he’s been entranced.

He spares a drop of energy to worry about that for a moment, and then discards it — Elias has aided it with his schemes, but he isn’t a conscious agent of the Web. He’s safe enough. 

“You flatter me,” he hears Elias murmur, very far away.

There’s the sounds of objects being moved, and then there’s a sponge running across Jon’s skin, rivulets of warmth making him sigh reflexively. Elias is careful and meticulous, his touch only as firm as it needs to be. He tends to each of Jon’s wounds in turn, blood and Spiral-dust turning the water iridescent, as dizzying as an oil slick. 

Jon dozes off when Elias is washing his hair, combing each of the tangles away. His hair floats around him in the water, and he has the faintest awareness that he’s slipping further and further into that warmth.

When he wakes, he’s relatively lucid. He feels more  _ human _ than he has in a long time: he still can’t grasp the power he’s so used to, but the Spiral is no longer scraping across his thoughts. He feels… normal. Content, even.

(The wounds Helen left are healing nicely, so clearly he isn’t entirely powerless. It was a nice thought, just for a moment.)

Elias is sitting by the bath, back to looking like a statue. His expression doesn’t change as Jon sits up, or as Jon stands, climbing out into the cold air of the bathroom. He just watches, gaze never darting below Jon’s chin.

“Back with us, then?”

Jon scoffs, reaching for where he remembers Elias putting his ragged clothes. They aren’t there anymore, replaced with a fresh set of garments that are rather more luxurious than anything Jon has ever owned. They fit, and they’re his style, but he can’t help but feel how obvious it is that he wasn’t the one to pick his own clothes.

Nevermind. There’s no one to judge him here but Elias, and Elias’ judgement shouldn’t mean anything to Jon now, not after everything he’s done. 

Elias doesn’t interrupt him as he dresses himself, just watches until Jon is finally presentable, At that, Elias smiles faintly; Jon curses himself for the warmth he feels at that unspoken praise. Judgement means nothing, he reminds himself, as Elias holds out a hand.

“There’s something I’d like you to see,” he tells Jon, coy, as though they don’t both know that he’s going to lead Jon up to the top of the Panopticon, to the place that he fears most. He can feel it calling to him from above. If he enters it, he’s not sure he’ll ever drag himself away.

“What if I say no?”

Elias’ hand doesn’t drop; he knows what Jon’s denial is worth. “Then you say no, and do as you will. I’m hardly in a position to stop you, just as you’re hardly in a position to stop  _ me.” _

“Right. An eye can’t see inside itself.”

Elias’ grin is all insidious delight.  _ What’s the harm, _ it asks.  _ Give in, just this once. _ It wouldn’t be just this once, though — Jon knows that acutely. It’s never been just this once.

All the same, he puts his hand in Elias’. It doesn’t shake.

“Just this once,” Jon agrees, all steel.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoyed! if you can, i'd really appreciate it if you left a comment!


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